Page 33 - Poetry-Family

I creep, and I climb, and I crawl
By turns am the animals all.
For the show on the stair
I’m always the bear,
The chimpanzee, or the kangaroo.
It is never, “Mamma,
Little mamma, —
Won’t you?”
My umbrella’s the pony, if any
None ride on mamma’s parasol;
I’m supposed to have always the penny
For bon-bons, and beggars, and all.
My room is the one where they clatter—
Am I reading, or writing, what matter!
My knee is the one for a trot,
My foot is the stirrup for Dot.
If his fractions get into a snarl
Who straightens the tangles for Karl?
Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine,
And tries to bound flimsy old Spain?
Why,
It is I,
Papa, —
Not little mamma!

That the youngsters are ingrates don’t say.
I think they love me—in a way—
As one does the old clock on the stair,
Any curious, cumbrous affair
That one’s used to having about,
And would feel rather lonely without.
I think that they love me, I say,
In a sort of tolerant way;
But it’s plain that papa
Isn’t little mamma.
Thus when shadows come stealing anear,
And things in the firelight look queer;
When shadows the play-room enwrap,
They never climb into my lap
And toy with my head, smooth and bare,
As they do with mamma’s shining hair;

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